When the Venom Stings
by Zeroninety
Summary: Abandoned by the Misfits, superfan 'Clash' Montgomery has no one left she can call a friend-until she's recruited to join a ruthless terrorist organization determined to rule the world...


When the Venom Stings…

(Another story that's been sitting, finished, for over a year. All rights, etc, belong to Hasbro).

* * *

I hate when people throw around words like "terrorist." Whenever someone tries to bring about change in our rotten society, they're branded a "terrorist." An "extremist." A "radical." I'm sure King Whatshisface called George Washington a terrorist, too. Just goes to show, the winners end up writing the history books.

Me, I haven't given up hope of being on the winning side before all's said and done.

I also hate it when people throw around the word "murderer." That just makes me laugh. It seems to me, murder's when you hate someone's guts, and you flip out and kill them. I've never done that, not once.

There's quite a few dopes who wouldn't be alive today if I had.

When a soldier kills a bunch of enemy troops, he gets called a hero. That's all I've been—a soldier, fighting for justice in this world. Sure, these days, I work for hire, but the goal's always the same: destroying the reign of oppression by the mediocre, in the hope of building up something far greater.

Someday, there's gonna be a freakin' statue of me. You just watch.

* * *

I don't remember who the man was I saw in bed with my mom; I just remember he was funny looking and I didn't like him. That's what I told my dad the next morning, as I finished my bowl of Kaboom.

That night, I crept out of my room when I heard the shouting begin. I hid at the top of the stairs and listened for a little while. I heard glass breaking, and my mother crying. Pleading.

I never saw her again. I was six.

* * *

I grew up in a little town called Mulberry. If you're ever there, ask about me—I'm sure they'll remember. Me and my dad lived in an old, two-story house that I convinced him to paint purple one day when I was eight. Daddy laughed his big, booming laugh, had a couple drinks, and spent the rest of the evening slathering the house in purple, from top to bottom, till he fell asleep in the backyard, with the dog's water dish as his pillow.

I spent the rest of my childhood knowing I lived in the coolest house in town.

My aunt and uncle lived a couple houses down, along with my older cousin, Vivian. She's a bore, and she always has been. She gets that from my Uncle John, the King of the Bores. He would constantly get onto my dad and me, just because Daddy actually had a sense of humor, and I took after him so well. The jealous old turd.

Daddy used to send me into giggle fits with his impressions of Uncle John. "Buzz, if you keep letting that girl run wild, she'll end up just as dissolute as you!" Every scowl, every disapproving tone, my father could recreate perfectly.

As for Vivian, you could always find her fooling around with cameras, making little movies, and that kind of crap. Everyone always called her "Video;" lucky for her, since Vivian's a stupid name. Despite being a dull bookworm, she was always the center of attention: "Aww, isn't she cute with her camera?" It's just like a dog; teach it a few tricks, and everyone fawns over it.

Hmm…Video as a dog. Sounds right to me. Woof woof, cousin!

At least I had my father looking out for me. One year, he bought my first pair of cymbals. In a way, they were my first love—ever since, I can spend hours reveling in the sizzling sound of metal on metal. There's something thrilling in hearing them clash together, the vibrations ringing in your ears as you strain to pick up every trace of sound before it dies away.

I'd never liked "Constance." Must have been a name my mom picked out. I don't suppose my dad liked it either; as soon as he saw how much I loved my cymbals, he called me "Clash." Now, _that_ felt right. That was a name with power. Clash Montgomery would always be the center of attention.

I'd been reborn, baptized in the clatter of perfectly crafted Zildjians.

* * *

I had no idea what to do with myself after high school. I never liked school much anyway, and I spent most of my senior year ditching, so college was out of the question. The idea of working didn't sound too appealing either. I spent a few weeks slinging burgers at McMalcolm's, but I got tired of dealing with all the dumbasses who couldn't stand to wait a minute or five for their precious BLTs.

Instead, I found myself spending most of my time in my room, listening to the radio, enjoying the new tiny cymbals that I wore on my bracelets, and occasionally huffing butane.

One night, while flipping through the radio dial, I heard a girl yelling out my nickname: "Clash! That's what we're gonna do, if you don't step aside!" I listened, entranced. The brash attitude; the snarling voice, dripping venom. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be that woman, who sang like she didn't give a damn what anyone thought; who sang as if she was talking directly to me, telling me I could be like her too. Singing my nickname: talk about seren-frickin-dipity-do!

"The Misfits." After the DJ said the group's name, I rolled it over my tongue, committing it to memory. The next morning, I swiped their album from the record store, and spent the next three weeks listening incessantly, while gazing at the girls on the cover. So brash, so beautiful; I wanted nothing more than to be them, to be part of them.

I imagined myself smashing windows with Stormer; crashing a car with Roxy; beating up Video, with Pizzazz's help. I constructed little biographies in my head of what they must be like: Roxy, dark, quiet, and mysterious; Stormer, with a razor sharp wit who refused to suffer fools; Pizzazz, confident, charismatic…a true leader. Even though someone named "Phillips" wrote most of the songs, I imagined they were all statements from Pizzazz, aimed only at me.

Sometimes, I'd rub myself off while listening to her, and then afterwards I'd try to make myself forget I'd done it.

I drove six hundred miles to see them in concert the first time. I drove another hundred to see them again the next night. They were even more incredible live than on the record.

When I got home, I dyed my hair green and made myself up to look like Pizzazz. Acting in school plays was about the only thing I'd enjoyed at Mulberry High, and I'd always been excellent at it. I had no trouble mimicking Pizzazz's stage movements, and her incredible swagger.

I'm sure Daddy must have thought I'd lost my mind, but he applauded when he saw me, just the same.

After a few days, I gave up my disguise. There was already one Pizzazz, perfect and irreplaceable. Instead, after experimenting with dyes and make-up, I developed my own, unique look. The look that, one day, I knew I'd see on an album cover, next to my heroes.

Video had gone to Hollywood a couple years earlier, and managed to trick people there into thinking she had talent for shooting music videos. Now, after hearing that the Misfits would be filming their own movie, I realized the time had come for me to ditch Mulberry as well.

I cried buckets saying goodbye to Daddy, but before long my heart began pumping like crazy as I got closer and closer to L.A. Knowing that Video was working on the movie as well gave me the perfect way to slip onto the lot without being caught. My heart nearly exploded when I convinced the guard I was the "Miss Montgomery" who had been expected.

Funny enough, I can't even remember the exact moment when I met my idols for the first time. All I can remember from the rest of that day is being light-headed, as if I'd huffed a dozen cans of paint thinner at once.

* * *

They laughed, and laughed, and laughed. I heard Pizzazz laughing loudest of all, and I could pick out Jetta's shrill guffaws. They sped away into the night, leaving me stranded.

I spent two years with them: their number one fan, doing everything I could to make myself indispensible to them. Answering fan mail; taking phone messages; picking up laundry; tuning guitars; spying on their rivals; devising alibis; holding their hair back for them when they puked.

That night, I realized none of it had mattered.

I should have seen it coming. Within a few days of when I first met them, Roxy and Stormer stopped talking to me unless they wanted something.

Roxy could be downright hostile, but I soon quit worrying about that. That's how she treated everyone, even Stormer, but I could see they were close; they were always their own little clique inside the band, so I tried to ignore how they ignored me.

But Pizzazz had been different. She liked the way I paid attention to her, and she went out of her way to include me. She let me stay at her mansion; she took me shopping for clothes and exotic pets (she bought me an iguana, but Roxy told me it ran away about a week after I brought it home); she took me to clubs all over town (a few nights after we met, she took me to a bar in Encino, where I lost my virginity to a biker on the pool table). For a while, I felt like I'd found my long lost big sister.

But after a while, "C'mon, Clash, let's have some fun!" morphed into, "Oh, _you're_ here. What do you want?" I did whatever I could, no matter how degrading, to keep her attentions. Whatever she asked, I did, to keep her from abandoning me.

Then Jetta joined the band, and wormed her way into Pizzazz's good graces. I panicked—I don't know how else to describe it. I came up with bigger and bigger schemes to try and recapture my friendship with Pizzazz. I once spent weeks studying Jem and the Holograms' videos, so I could learn every nuance of Jem's voice and body movements. I posed as Jem so I could discredit her in the eyes of the public. I damn near succeeded, but it all blew up in my face in the end.

It took a month to regain admittance to the group's inner circle, and I promptly blew it again by taking the Misfits on a tour of Mulberry. What should have been a triumph—making Video look bad in front of our whole town—turned disastrous when my dad mentioned the fantasies I'd blurted out about me being a fifth Misfit.

They laughed at me that night, as well. Pizzazz and I never hung out again-not the two of us, anyway.

I tried upstaging Video at her own game, by filming the Misfits in Mexico; the finished clip turned out great, but my cousin ended up with all the awards, as usual.

After months of steadily being frozen out, I hatched my grandest plan yet—I infiltrated the Holograms, so I could film them at their worst. Everything went perfectly; I knew Pizzazz would have no choice but to let me join the group, once the world saw my hatchet job.

But Video screwed me over again, and switched the tapes at the last moment. Instead, the Misfits were the laughingstocks, and Jem, who'd actually been quite nice to me, told me just how much I'd blown it all.

As the Misfits' van sped away, their laughter—Pizzazz's laughter-filling my ears, I kept running, running, running, until my calves rolled up like window shades. I hit the pavement hard enough to break my nose-a parting gift from my wonderful friends.

* * *

A couple months later, I sat at a club in Santa Monica spending money I didn't really have anymore on my fourth rumpletini of the night. After a few drinks, I couldn't feel my still-swollen calves any longer.

I perched at a table in a corner, nursing my drink as I ignored the sleazes who stopped by my table every so often, hoping for a dance.

I prepared to order drink number five when a woman a few years older than me with a spiky blonde and blue pageboy took the seat next to me. I nearly told her I wasn't interested in going that way tonight, either, when she asked, "Interesting drink?"

"Huh?"

She grinned. "You've been staring at it for a good twenty minutes."

I sighed, and spotted my reflection in the almost empty glass. "Just trying to find myself." (Hey, I was drunk).

"Aren't we all? Of course, here, we won't find anything but a place to spin our wheels."

When I looked down, I noticed her leather skirt was as short as my lamé one, except her legs were longer and more toned. "Huh. You must be drunker than me, spouting off crap like that. Now, beat it."

She chuckled. "You're a spunky one." She dangled a finely-manicured hand in front of my face. "They call me 'Dynamite.' And you?"

I brushed her hand away. "You can call me, 'Not interested.' I told you to get lost, didn't I?"

Dynamite gave me a smirk. "Now I'm curious—dating troubles? Work troubles? What's given you that delicious burst of attitude?"

I'd had enough of her nonsense, and I prepared to tear her a new two or three, when I heard Pizzazz's voice wailing from the speakers: "It's happened, I made it, I'm finally here, at the top of the charts!" I sank into my chair as the rest of the club danced to the Misfits' latest hit.

"Friend troubles," I declared. "They ditched me. They never liked me. They never wanted me around." I drained the last dregs of my cocktail, as the alcohol stung my throat.

Dynamite patted my shoulder. "Their loss. I've only known you a few minutes, but you seem pretty cool to me…what'd you say your name was?"

I shrugged. "I didn't. Everyone calls me Clash."

Her grin pulled back so far, I could see her molars. "What a great codename!"

"Codename?" This chick had set off my flake-o-meter. I searched for an excuse to leave. I stood up, but she grabbed my forearm.

"Listen, Clash, I don't say this to just anyone, but I have some friends you should really meet."

I pried her fingers off me. "Look, I'm really not into anything kinky tonight, ok?"

Dynamite threw her head back and cackled. "Oh, you're so funny! You'll be a big hit at the next meeting." She reached in her purse, pulled out a pen, and began scribbling on a napkin. "Look, tomorrow night, my friends are having a little get-together at the address on here, at 8. I'd love it if you came—I think you'll really hit it off with everyone."

I scanned the napkin: "512 Sycamore St." I glanced back over to her. "And this isn't an orgy, right?"

Dynamite giggled. "You're so silly, Clash. No, we just meet to talk about things. I know you've got a lot of questions, and I think you'll find the answers you're looking for there—instead of at the bottom of a glass."

For whatever reason, I suddenly felt ashamed of my empty drink. I tossed the glass over my shoulder, and heard a satisfying crinkle as it shattered.

"All right," I told her. "I'll think about it."

"Good, good. I really hope you come." I felt her touching my forearm again. "By the way, what's with the bracelets?"

I smiled, stood to my full height, slammed my wrists together, and gave an almighty clash that could be heard throughout the club.

Dynamite convulsed with laughter, and applauded me.

I had no idea that a week earlier, she had planted a bomb on board the _USS Lawrence_, killing fifteen sailors and a French diplomat.

* * *

512 Sycamore St. turned out to be an abandoned warehouse in the crappiest part of Santa Monica, and that's saying something. I thought about hiding my car's tape deck in my purse while I went inside. I soon found it wouldn't fit, and resigned myself to buying a new one. And a new window.

A tall Asian guy with a mustache stood outside the front door, his arms folded. Something about his pose struck me as funny, so I walked up to him, curtsied, and gave him a salute. "Ahoy there!"

"What do you want?" He snorted like a Great Dane with a chest cold.

"This girl Dynamite invited me to a shindig here. Ever heard of her?" I expected him to say "No."

He smiled and gestured to the door. "You must be Clash. Come on in; we've been expecting you."

I pushed past him and found only darkness. As I took a few more steps, I felt something furry brush against my shoe. I gave a quick kick and heard a whimper in return. In the distance, I saw a dull light; I kept moving forward, trying to reach it. As I moved closer, I could hear murmurs, which soon became a full-blown conversation.

Finally, I'd reached the meeting. In the center of the warehouse, under two bare light bulbs, a dozen chairs had been arranged, facing a large desk and a chalkboard. Half the chairs were empty; seated in the others were a couple punks with Mohawks, a black girl with a shaved head, a 300 pound Samoan guy covered in tattoos, and a couple Mexican kids who couldn't have been more than fifteen.

A man and woman stood at the desk. The man, pale and red-haired, wore a shirt and tie, along with jeans and Birkenstocks. The woman wore a red and black pantsuit, with red-framed glasses under her blue and blonde pageboy; Dynamite smiled at me. "I knew you'd come, Clash. Care for some punch?"

She pointed to punch bowl, next to some cold cuts. Not exactly the kind of spread they'd serve at the Gabor Mansion. "Maybe later." I took a seat next to one of the punks and propped my feet on the empty chair in front of me. I saw Dynamite wink at the red-haired guy.

"Well, we seem to have a nice little turn-out tonight. My friends call me Burn." The red-haired guy clapped his hands together and scanned our faces. "We have some other speakers who'll be coming in later, but for now, Dynamite and I will just rap with you a bit."

The punk next to me yelled out, "Fuck talkin'! I was told there was gonna be some cash here!" That was the first I'd heard of that. I had to admit, I could have used some cash myself.

Dynamite chuckled. "Don't worry, Hammerhead. Before long you'll have more cash than you know what to do with."

Burn turned to the blackboard. He scratched "Democracy" on the board; I soaked up the pleasing sound of the chalk scraping.

"I'm sure you all know what this word means."

One of the Mexican kids raised his hand, like he was still in school. "Uh, it means everybody gets to vote, and stuff."

"Very good, Ramon." Burn underlined it for emphasis. "Land of the free—that's what they call America, right?"

"Is this going anywhere?" I asked.

Burn shot me a glare. Dynamite gave him a quick nudge with her elbow, and nodded at him.

He cleared his throat and continued. "Let me ask you guys something. With all this democracy, it means anyone can be free, right?"

The bald black girl spoke up: "Yeah, if you're a _white man_!"

"And if you got money!" Hammerhead barked.

Dynamite paced from one side of the desk to the other. "Hmm. Doesn't sound like that kind of freedom's all it's cracked up to be, does it?"

Burn drew a big "X" through "Democracy." "What a joke, huh? The rich keep getting richer, and those in power keep getting fat and lazy. And people keep voting for the status quo, year after year!"

I sighed. "I thought this was supposed to be fun, and you're just giving us a civics lesson. Barf!"

Burn curled his lip at me. "You're a clever girl, Clash." He turned to Dynamite. "She probably could have skipped the intro meeting."

Dynamite shook her head. "Nope, no one does. The guidelines are strict."

Burn seemed to ignore her as he scraped on the board, in huge letters, "MEDIOCRITY." "Anybody know what _this_ means?"

The big tattooed Samoan said, "Yeah, that means you're not very good but not very bad, either. Right?"

"Exactly, Icepick. That's the thing about this country: it rewards mediocrity." Burn shook his head as he erased the board. "Men of power, men of vision—the public fears their greatness. They reject those who can truly lead, in favor of someone with 'the common touch.'"

"Look, if this is gonna turn out to be a sales pitch for Tupperware, count me out." I jumped to my feet, stuffed a few cold cuts in my purse, and turned to leave.

"Clash, wait! Let me ask you something!" Dynamite sounded so insistent. I turned back to her. She'd removed her glasses and begun rubbing her eyes. "What do you hate most in this world?"

I didn't have to think too hard. "I hate hypocrisy. I hate when people tell you one thing to your face, but say something different behind your back." I felt my legs get weak, as I remembered Pizzazz and the others.

As I slumped back to my seat, Burn smiled. "Yes, exactly. Hypocrisy—you've all seen it. Nobody says what they mean—not the media, and certainly not the government. They lie to us constantly, so we won't wise up to how ineffective their mediocre rule is!"

Dynamite took up the chalk and scraped "BROOTHERHOOD." She pointed to it for emphasis. "And the worst part is, they protect their rule by pitting us all against each other—black vs. white, rich vs. poor." She looked over at me. "They teach us to fight each other to get ahead, because they can't risk us joining together."

Burn put his hands behind his back and stretched himself to his full height. "But one man has seen through their lies."

Dynamite joined him at his side. "One man has discovered the truth of what humanity is capable of."

"One man can bring us all together, with his power-"

"—With brotherhood-"

"—To establish a glorious new age for mankind!"

With a dramatic sweep of his arm, Burn reached to the top of the chalkboard, and pulled down a rolled-up photograph. The man in the photo wore some kind of silver and blue armor. He pointed at us, beckoning us to follow him. His brown eyes looked ready to combust at any moment.

Burn and Dynamite stood at either side of the photo. They raised their right arms in a salute, and, in voices loud enough to rattle the windows of the old warehouse, they shouted, "HAIL, COBRA COMMANDER!"

This night had taken an odd turn…

And yet, at that moment, I envied their faith, and their obvious pride. For the rest of the evening, they grew much more animated, talking about all the wonderful things their "Cobra" group could do for the world, and the joy and sense of purpose they felt.

At first, I could only think of all the news stories about a bunch of crazies who liked blowing stuff up, and something about how they nearly captured Washington, D.C. a couple years earlier. But Dynamite and her buddy made it all sound more like the Salvation Army than a terrorist outfit.

After an hour or so, only four of us were left: the bald black girl and Hammerhead had taken off. I guess they didn't get to the money part fast enough for his liking.

"Couldn't we all, like, end up in jail?" Icepick had a way of getting to the root of a problem.

Burn laughed. "My friend, once Cobra takes control, there'll be no need for jails. Jails have always been set up to oppress those who might threaten those in power. But no one alive can threaten the Cobra Commander."

Our teachers gave the Commander another hail. I'd soon find out just how much practice goes into that.

Ramon shuffled in his seat. "Well, if he's so great, why the army? Why can't he win an election?"

Dynamite shook her head. "The Commander detests violence, but it's the only thing the people in charge understand. They'll never give up their grip on power without a fight."

I yawned. "What makes him so different from any other joker?"

Burn nearly spoke, but Dynamite raised a hand to him and walked next to my side. She spoke to me softly. "Because in these last few years, he's never lied about his goals and his aims—not once, not ever. I've learned to believe anything he says. Is there anyone _you_ can say that about?"

I thought of the friends who'd betrayed me; of the cousin who despised me. I thought of my father, who I loved with all my heart; but I also remembered a night, years earlier—a night that filled me with questions he'd never answered. A night that, in my heart, I had the most terrible suspicions about.

"No," I replied, with meekness I despised but couldn't hide. I shrank into my chair.

Dynamite caressed my shoulders. "I'm sorry, Clash." She leaned in close, and whispered into my ear. "We can help you. We'll help you become the person you most want to be. _I_ will help you."

I fought back tears for several minutes as she held my hand and told me how much Cobra needed me.

I went back the next week. Soon I found myself unable to sleep at night. The day of the third meeting, I could think of nothing else.

After the fourth meeting, I signed myself over, body and soul, to Cobra. I was glad to do it.

* * *

It doesn't matter what army you're in: boot camp blows chunks. A little over a month after I first met Dynamite, I found myself on some island in the middle of nowhere, with about thirty other new recruits (including Icepick and Ramon, from our little group in Santa Monica), with no showers, no soap, no make up, broiling in the summer sun, being eaten alive by God knows what kind of bugs, and being screamed at (and sometimes punched in the face) by our drill sergeant, "Big Boa."

The Gabor Mansion, this was not.

Still, after a few weeks, a lot of what I'd been told in the meetings began making sense. I _did_ feel tougher, and more confident. And I began to make friends with some of the other recruits. It's amazing how you start bonding when you can all hate someone in common.

"You're the sorriest sacks of crap to ever set foot on this island! You all disgust me!" About six weeks in, Big Boa made it clear he didn't care much for us either.

"I'll make you maggots a deal. The first one to knock me out gets to leave. Everyone else'll have to stay another month!"

Now, this guy was about 6'6", and pure muscle. We'd heard he'd been a champion boxer, and his face had been broken and rearranged so many times, he always wore a mask. I don't know if that's true—I didn't consider him important enough to find out.

"Well guys, it's been fun, but I'm gonna be the first one out of here." Icepick lumbered into the clearing our trainer had set aside, and began throwing haymakers at him. Big Boa absorbed the punches for several minutes; I can't be sure, since he wore a mask, but I swear he started yawning.

Finally, he'd had enough, and drilled Icepick with a jab to the nose. We all recoiled at the sight of our comrade slumping to the dirt in a heap, blood gushing from his nose.

After a pair of Vipers—Cobra infantrymen-dragged the unconscious loser from the clearing, Big Boa yelled out "Next!"

One by one, the other recruits took their turns charging him. Each went down with a single punch. The ninth one in, a cocky guy from India who called himself Garuda, died from a fierce uppercut that almost tore his lower jaw off.

When the Vipers' backs were turned, I slipped away from the crowd. I figured I had five minutes at most before they realized I'd gone. I snuck into our barracks and turned over my cot. I used my fingernail to unscrew one of the legs; I prayed it'd be heavy enough for what I had in mind.

I removed my shoes and crept back through the jungle as softly as I could. I knew I'd have only a few seconds at most. The image of Garuda came back into my head—I forced my vomit back down, and then tried to steady myself. I had to be strong to make this work.

"Don't fuck this up," I whispered to myself. "Don't fuck this up."

I tiptoed to the clearing, where I saw Ramon's knees buckle under him. I don't think he'd even been hit, but he went down all the same.

I waited till Big Boa had his back to me. I swallowed hard, lifted the iron bar over my head, and then sprang into a run. He began to turn when I jumped, and threw everything I had into the blow. I heard the crunch of his helmet breaking. I hoped I'd smashed his skull as well.

We both hit the ground at the same time. I almost lost my balance, but still landed upright. He collapsed at my feet, he helmet broken in two, with blood gushing from the point of impact.

"Freeze!" The Vipers pulled their lasers on me and began advancing. In a split second, I clutched the iron bar, took a deep breath, and prepared to die fighting.

Then, I heard a familiar voice call out, "At ease!" The Vipers dropped their guns to their sides.

I turned to Dynamite and forced a smile. "Thank you."

She came to my side, bent over, and checked the fallen trainer's pulse. "Get him to a medic!" she barked to the Vipers, who obeyed without question, as the rest of the recruits trudged back to the barracks.

She put a hand on my shoulder as I tried to catch my breath. "That was one wicked hit. Not exactly fair fighting."

Then, I heard a man's voice from the bushes "Ah, but who-"

Another man, with a deeper voice, but the same fruity accent, interrupted: "—ever said life-"

Finally, they spoke in unison, "—was fair?!"

I gasped when they emerged from the shadows: twins, in special blue, red, and white Cobra uniforms. Ok, twins themselves aren't shocking, but they were so near perfectly identical (except for the scar on one guy's cheek) that it creeped me out.

The fact that they reminded me of the Misfits' skeevy manager didn't help, either.

Dynamite nudged me "Stand at attention, and drop your weapon!" I hadn't realized I was still clutching the iron bar to my chest. I looked down as I dropped it to make sure I didn't smash my own toe—that would have been an embarrassing ending to the day.

One twin began, "That was most-"

"—Impressive. Dynamite, your-"

"—Assessment of this recruit-"

"—was right on the money," they finished in unison.

Dynamite gave them a slight bow. "I'm grateful to have pleased you." She gestured towards them. "Clash, this is Tomax, and Xamot, the commanders of the Crimson Guard."

Everything was still so new to me, they could have been the Doublemint twins, for all I cared. Although I'd end up working with them closely in the years to come, I never could quite figure out which one was which.

One twin grinned and spoke up, "Dynamite, your recommendation-"

"—for this recruit will be-"

"—Noted and accepted." With that, they turned their backs to us and disappeared into the underbrush.

When they'd gone, I asked her in a whisper, "Are they always like that?"

Dynamite shrugged. "You get used to it." Then she put her hands on my shoulders and grinned. "You should be proud. It's not every recruit who can earn the praise of such high ranking members of the Cobra hierarchy."

I let her words sink in, and I did become proud.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Were you trying to kill him?"

I drooped my head and noticed my dirty, scarred feet for the first time. "I—yeah, I was. I knew I only had one shot, and it was kill or be killed."

She took my hand, and patted it softly. "Since the moment I met you, Clash, I knew you were destined for great things."

I took my hand back from her. Not sure what to do with it, I tucked it under my armpit. "So, what now?"

"Get your things, and meet me at the heli-pad in ten minutes. I'm taking you to Cobra Headquarters, where you'll start Tele-Viper training."

I brushed my hair from my eyes. "Is that good?"

Dynamite threw her head back and cackled. "You always crack me up! Yes, it's good. I'm recommending you be skipped right past standard Viper service. That's almost _unheard_ of. Even _I_ had to do six months in the infantry!"

"You really think that highly of me?"

She laughed again. "You haven't given me any reason not to." Then her smile disappeared. "And you'd better not. I'm sticking my neck out for you. Don't make me regret it."

"No ma'am."

I got another laugh from her. "Ok, you can cut _that_ out! I'm still a lot of years away from 'Ma'am'!" As she turned to leave she added, "Oh, and you'll wanna get a haircut."

"Huh?"

She pointed at me. "Your roots are showing!"

As she disappeared back into the jungle, I pulled my bangs forward. Sure enough, an inch of brown peeked out from under the purple dye job. As soon as I arrived at Cobra HQ, I asked for scissors and cut away the last traces of my Misfit past.

* * *

Did I mention I hated school? I'm pretty sure I did. Well, let me just reiterate: I _hated_ school!

Well, as soon I arrived on the deserted little island where Cobra kept their secret headquarters, I had to spend my days in classrooms for the first six months: Beginner's Data Encryption; Shortwave Jamming II; Advanced Tactical EMP Maintenance; Signal Falsification (Eurasian Sector). That's not even getting into all the classes and lectures on Cobra doctrine. I grew so frustrated at being trapped at a desk, I nearly flunked out after the first month.

Had I not learned one of the other students was selling the answers to the tests, I probably would have. I lost twenty pounds during those months after trading him nearly every food ration token I'd been given.

I graduated with honors.

Once I actually began work as a fully licensed Tele-Viper, I found the job wasn't nearly as hard as I'd been led to believe. Scan the short waves for messages here, decode a communiqué there: not really much harder than taking messages for Pizzazz, or answering the Misfits' fan mail for them.

During my first year and a half in Cobra, I had the satisfaction of making Tele-Viper 2nd Class, with a good shot at another promotion. I had fun off duty, as well: I made starter on our women's volleyball team, I played cymbals in the Cobra Orchestra, and I got fourth billing when I played the Baroness in the Cobra Playhouse Company production of _The Life of Cobra Commander: The Modern Colossus._

Playing the Baroness came easily—I saw her most days in HQ, icily relaying orders to anyone she saw. As the highest ranking Cobra member I saw on a daily basis, I always found my attention drawn to her.

Only once did she speak to me in those days. One night, she asked for a report on the whereabouts of a deployment of HISS tanks. I told her, truthfully, that they hadn't radioed in. She yelled out, "Ignorant cow!" and threw a walkie-talkie at me.

I first met the Commander himself not long after completing my classes. He was shorter than I expected, and his voice more shrill, but he carried himself regally. For a time, at least, I absolutely understood the awe Dynamite had for him. Watching him direct his forces—his children—across the world, I truly believed the man to be capable of ruling us all.

Every now and then, I'd hear one of the vets complain "Serpentor would have won the war by now," or things like that. I never quite figured out the whole story there, except that there'd been a power struggle in Cobra, and the Commander had been temporarily sidelined. I tried to ask Dynamite, but the question seemed to make her nervous, so I dropped it.

Looking at the people leading us, I had no doubt the New Cobra Golden Age was no more than just a year or two away from beginning.

We were all young and stupid, once.

* * *

"I said, 'Are you gonna finish your macaroni?'"

I hadn't been listening to Dynamite, as we finished our meatloaf lunches in the Cobra Commissary. I was too busy admiring her beautiful red uniform.

"Hey," I asked, leaning forward, "What do you think I can do to make it into the Guard?"

She laughed so hard, she nearly spit Diet Cobra-Cola from her nose.

I made sure not to change my expression. When she saw I wasn't kidding, she switched to a more solemn mask. "Sorry, Clash, didn't mean to laugh. Look, you're doing a great job, but I told you already, you need a degree in law or accounting to join the Guard. Tomax and Xamot are very strict on that."

I rolled my eyes and folded my arms at her. "Huh. What about Needles? They let _him_ in."

"He's a doctor!"

I shrugged. "So?"

Dynamite smiled as she scooped the rest of my macaroni onto her plate without asking. "Oh, I don't know what I'm gonna do with you." As she took a bite, she added, "Look, we've got connections with universities all over the world. It'll be no problem getting you in. I can have you assigned to recruiting; you'd be great at that."

"Blech! I don't wanna go back to school—I _hate_ school. Besides, that'd take a few years, and I want in the Guard _now_!" As the Viper sitting next to me bussed his tray and left, I propped my feet up in the empty chair.

"Well, somebody's a little impatient!" she laughed. "Besides, you shouldn't have any trouble getting through college the way you cheated your way through Tele-Viper training."

I dropped my fork to my tray and stared, dumbfounded. "But—how did you find out?"

She pointed a forkful of macaroni at me. "You should know by now, Clash—there's nothing you can hide from Cobra." She winked at me as she took a bite.

* * *

I peered deep into the mirror, scanning for the slightest trace of a smudge in the ruby red lipstick. I'd already spent half an hour putting every hair in the long black wig in place. If I had any hope of pulling this off, it all had to be perfect.

The day after my lunch with Dynamite, I'd hit on an awesome plan to prove my worth for the Guard. Recently, the Commander and his former Number Two, Destro, had put aside their differences, and Destro had once again taken his rightful place at the Commander's side (I suspected the falling out had something to do with "Serpentor," but no one ever gave me a straight answer).

Soon after he arrived at HQ, the vets began gossiping about the affair Destro had with the Baroness. Apparently it always bothered the Commander; it had been said he worried they might plot against him.

That gave me the idea: since I'd already played the Baroness on stage, I decided that if I could fool Destro himself into thinking I was her, they'd have no choice but to appoint me to the Crimson Guard.

Part of me still thinks that's a brilliant plan.

I finished applying the makeup to the thin latex mask I had tricked a friend in the Espionage Department into making for me. I practiced speaking in her silly accent: "Destro, dahling, I've been thinking ahf you ahll day." Listening to myself, even _I_ thought I was hearing her speak.

I dressed in the costume I'd worn in the play; she was thinner than me, so I tried to suck in my never-quite-flat belly as much as possible. I adjusted the mountains of padding in my bra, as I tried to figure out how she could even walk without tumbling forward.

Finally, I added the finishing touch: the black-rimmed glasses. Assuming she even had a mother still, I just knew I could fool that old bat too.

I crossed my fingers, took a deep breath, and strode into the hallway. My first test came as I left the barracks and headed past the gym. Two Gyro-Vipers stopped and saluted. I gave them a contemptuous wave.

As I made my through the corridors, I passed all manner of Vipers and troopers, each of whom stopped to salute me. Even a pair of Crimson Guards showed their deference. I fought a losing battle to hide the smile that spread across my lips with each kowtow.

Before I stepped into the Central Command building, the Viper on duty stopped me with a hand to the shoulder. "Whoa, strict orders-identity code, Baroness."

I chuckled. "Zero niner zero, romeo sierra vhiskey." The Baroness never seemed to notice what good hearing I had.

Unlike the main compound, which was almost always filled with activity, the Central Command was quiet…almost eerie. I walked through the halls for several minutes without seeing anyone, except a single Guardsman who saluted without giving a second look.

Even the elevator demanded my identity code, though it was less touchy feely about it. I decided to check every floor until I found Destro's office.

As I exited onto the fourth floor, I saw one of our main field commanders, Major Bludd, speaking with a Guardsman—well, a Guardswoman, actually. "It's ridiculous, luv, some of these battle plans. You'd think the Commander and Destro can't even agree on whether the bloody sun is in the sky!"

The Guard laughed, and I recognized the tufts of blonde hair peeking from under her helmet. "The stranger the plans, the less likely G.I. Joe will be able to predict what we're doing."

I steadied my hand. If anyone could see through my disguise, it was Dynamite. I could feel the sweat running down my forehead onto my mascara.

Major Bludd noticed me first. "Right, just the person I wanted to talk to. What the 'ell is with these plans for the raid on the munitions depot in Sumatra? What does the blinkin' Commander think he's doin?"

I grimaced. "You're paid to _execute_ the plans, not qvestion them!"

"But, Baroness?!"

I clucked my tongue at him. "I don't have time for your vhining!" I brushed past them and sashayed down the corridor. I bit my lip and prayed Dynamite hadn't noticed anything odd.

I finally found Destro's office on the sixth floor. I stopped to wonder how the Baroness would make her presence known. I finally grabbed the door handle and barged on in.

I'd seen pictures, but they hadn't prepared me for the sight when he stood from behind his desk. Even with me in heels, he stood nearly a foot taller, with shoulders broader than any I'd seen—well, besides my old drill sergeant, Big Boa.

And the mask-silver, formed perfectly around his head, as if made of tinfoil, yet of some strange, much stronger material. Unlike the Commander's mask, I couldn't see any hint of his eyes—just dark, empty holes.

He put his huge hands to his sides. "Something you wanted?"

I took a deep breath, then spoke up: "Destro, dahling, I've been thinking ahf you ahll day."

He grinned at me, and snickered. "Indeed? Well, what an interesting surprise."

"Vell, I can't help baht think ahf you." I tried rolling my hips as much as I could when I walked. "I yearn to feel your hahnds on me again."

"Is that so?" He walked from the behind the desk; with his long strides, he faced me in just moments. He removed his gloves and ran his fingers along my lips. His hands were cold and clammy. "You like that, yes?"

"Yes." He brushed his hands slowly down my shoulders; he began to caress my forearms.

He bent forwards and leaned in close to my ear. "I have a surprise for you, too," he whispered.

"Vaht is it?" I could feel his hot breath on my cheek. I made my mind up as to how far I would be willing to take this.

At that moment, I heard a rap at the door.

Destro dug his fingers into my arms. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

He whispered again. "The Baroness _always_ knocks."

I heard his laughter booming, echoing through the room. "Enter!" he shouted.

My doppelganger opened the door; I turned and saw the Baroness stop in her tracks. "Destro? Vaht's going on?"

He smiled; I had the momentary terror that he might use his huge teeth to rip into my flesh. "It seems, my dear Baroness, we have a spy in our midst."

If he hadn't been holding me up, I'd have collapsed.

"Not pehrfect, but quite a good job." The Baroness walked to Destro's side and pinched my chin between her fingers. With a grin, she added, "I may have to perform her interrogation personally."

She slipped the glasses off my face, and then ripped off the latex mask. The adhesives stung my skin.

"She's not G.I. Joe." She grabbed me by the chin again and stared into my eyes. "She looks…familiar."

I never even saw Destro's hand coming; the slap was harder than any punch I'd ever taken in hand to hand training. "Who _are_ you, girl?"

I struggled to find the breath to speak. "Tel…Tele-Viper 2nd Class, Constance Montgomery, serial number CN-1194867."

The Baroness grabbed me by the collar with enough force to pull me from Destro's grip. "I hope you are prepared to die a traitor's death, you disgusting little bitch!" She tossed me to the floor; the bump I got when my head smacked the wall knocked my wig clean off.

"Now, now, Baroness. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We still need to learn who she's working for." Destro yanked me back to my feet with one hand.

"I'm a loyal Cobra," I sputtered. "I believe in the Great Cause. I'm not a traitor; I'm not a spy."

"Liar!" The Baroness kicked me in the ribs knocking me to the floor. For a moment, the force of her stiletto heel hitting me made me think I'd been stabbed.

"I wanted to prove I'm worthy of the Crimson Guard. I thought if I could pull off impersonating the Baroness, they'd have to accept me." The kick had knocked the wind from me. I struggled to stand up again. "I swear, I'm telling the truth!"

Destro began with a snort, with grew to a snicker, then a chuckle, a guffaw, and finally a full-blown belly laugh. "Baroness, tell her to repeat what she just said!" She did, and I complied.

He laughed even harder the second time.

"Such brave idiots we have in Cobra! Tell me, girl: you seriously thought you could gain advancement by making a fool of me?"

I shrugged. "I fooled everyone _but_ you." I don't know why I said what I said next; maybe it's the knowledge that I'd die no matter what I said. "I'd have fooled the Commander, if he'd been here."

Later, I was told Destro's laughter could be heard all over the island.

The Baroness struggled to get his attention. "Destro, stop vith this silliness. You don't believe her idiotic story?"

"Ah, my dear Baroness, no one would make up a story so ridiculous." He took my arm, much more gently this time, and led me to a seat near his desk. "Well, Montgomery, I suppose you should be commended for exposing glaring gaps in our security."

"I should?"

"Indeed. I can guarantee you, several of the guards here will be punished for their dereliction of duty." He poured me a glass of water. As I took it, I noticed for the first time how much my hands were shaking.

"Baroness," he barked, "leave us be for a moment."

"But dahling!"

"Do as I say!" His tone left no room for argument. The Baroness gave me only the slightest glance before she stormed off, slamming the door in her wake.

Destro took his seat again, flipped up a control panel on his desk, and pressed a button. "Now, Montgomery, it's time you received new orders."

"You…you're going to let me join the Guard?"

His jolly tone soured again. "Foolish girl! Cobra does not reward failure! But what we _can_ do is put your skills to better use."

I craned my neck to try and see what he was typing into his computer. He noticed, and I tried acting nonchalant. "So, what am I going to be doing now?"

"I've reassigned you to Espionage Sector. You'll begin training with Zartan. Make no mistake—after working with him, you shall be able to impersonate others like a _professional._"

"You mean, I'll be going on missions?"

"If you show enough potential in training."

I wanted to bounce in my seat. This might not be the Guard, but it sounded awesome. "When do I start?"

"Right now." The voice was cold and metallic, and I had no idea where it came from. I spun in my seat, searching for the source.

The man stood behind me. He was tall, with a hood covering his head. Only his dark eyes were visible. He looked down at me; his stare seemed to burrow into my brain.

I heard Destro making introductions. "Zartan, Montgomery is going to begin training with you."

Zartan leaned into close to get a good look at me. I couldn't read his face at all. "She prefers to be called 'Clash.'"

I swallowed hard. "How'd you know that?"

"I make it my business to know."

"How-How'd you get in here?" I stammered. He made no reply.

Behind me, I felt Destro put his cold hand on my shoulder. "Well, 'Clash,' consider yourself lucky to have received this opportunity."

"Yes, sir, I do."

He stood and approached Zartan. "She is not trusted." He grabbed my chin and studied me like an unruly guinea pig. I searched his face for any hint of humanity behind that metal mask. I found none.

"She has potential…but at the slightest hint of betrayal, kill her."

By now, I'd been with Cobra long enough for orders like that to sound proper, and just.

* * *

"Justine, I need these reports faxed over to Wainscott right away." The way Mr. Shelby's tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth when he talked irritated me beyond words.

"Yes, sir."

"And type up that memo on the Lassiter deal, and cc it to every department head."

"Coming right up." I could never figure how a fax machine could manage to be more complicated to use than a Cobra neural paralyzer.

Mr. Shelby licked his lips. "Good girl. I'll be joining Williams for a meeting with some clients; hold my calls." He turned to leave, stopped in his tracks, then walked back over to my side, ran his hand along my blouse, and pinched my left nipple. I did my best to fake a smile.

I often had to remind myself that the task of reshaping the world makes great demands of us. At least Mr. Shelby's "demands" only lasted about two minutes before he wore himself out. Just as well-it's not like I didn't have better things to do.

For the past few months, I'd been working at MaizeTech, in Des Moines, Iowa. As far as anyone there knew, I was Justine Dudley, a redhead from Omaha, and the latest of Ed Shelby's bimbo secretaries. (One day I overheard some of the other workers taking bets on how long it'd take for Shelby's wife to start a slap fight with me in the parking lot. Probably a good thing she never did—I carry piano wire in my bracelets).

No one there knew I had been copying the files on MaizeTech's new genetically-engineered strains of corn, and sending the data back to Cobra HQ, so our scientists could…well, I never found out what, actually. Those guys were always cooking up some damned thing, and most of the time, it never seemed to work.

The first week truly was exciting—meeting everyone there, fooling everyone into believing all the lies I spun about growing up in Nebraska, and my family (three brothers, two sisters). Even seducing Ed the first time, and pressing him for info about Project Mighty Corn, gave me a thrill.

But it always becomes _work_, in the end. Ugh.

As I typed up the latest in an endless serious of memos, I heard Mr. Shelby's bark on the little intercom. "Justine, bring some coffee up to Dave's office, will you?" I wondered how high up I could toss that intercom with a running start.

"Right away."

After making my way to the other wing of the building (Shelby and Williams might have shared ownership of the company, but they avoided each other whenever possible), I heard a vaguely familiar voice as I opened the door to the office. "We'll have to get on the horn and let them know the particulars, but our directors are most anxious to make this deal," the man said.

As I entered, I saw Mr. Williams at his desk, with Mr. Shelby standing next to him. A red-haired man and a blonde woman in business dress sat facing them. Dave chuckled, "You let everyone at Extensive know we'd never give anyone else a price this low."

Ed motioned to me to bring the coffee pot to the desk. I shot a quick glance at the two clients; I tried to hide a smile when I saw Burn and Dynamite. I left the room without a word.

When I got to my desk, I tried to figure out what they were doing here. Extensive Enterprises was a major front for Cobra, run by Tomax and Xamot. I tapped a pen against my forehead and tried to guess what kind of deal Cobra had planned.

About a half hour later, Ed came back through the lobby, escorting my comrades. "You folks let your bosses know how thrilled we are to have them as customers."

"Believe us," Burn replied, "the feeling is more than mutual."

I did my best to avoid looking at them as they passed by. The faintest trace of recognition between any of us might ruin our plans—whatever they were.

After they said their goodbyes to Mr. Shelby and left, I noticed a folded slip of paper on the corner of my desk. Once I made sure no one was looking, I unfolded it and read the long, looping strokes of Dynamite's handwriting:

"YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO LEAVE THE BUILDING"

I didn't bother with explanations. I bolted from my desk and headed to the door. Ed tried to grab my arm. "Justine, what do think you're doin'?"

"I quit!" As soon as I made it outside, I sprinted the rest of the way to my car. I had already driven six blocks when I heard the series of explosions that reduced MaizeTech to rubble.

* * *

I spent that evening hiding in the bungalow Cobra's hard-earned dollars had paid for, waiting next to my shortwave to receive my new orders. I knew I'd have to head out soon, before the cops connected me to the bombing. I'd already bleached my hair to be on the safe side.

By nine-thirty, with no word still from HQ, I began prepping to hit the road, when I heard a tapping at my back door.

I wasn't taking any chances. I assembled my AK-74, loaded the magazine, and crept through the kitchen to the back door. I knew I could shoot my way out if there were no more than four of them. As long as I didn't panic, that is.

That's a pretty big assumption, though.

The tapping began again, this time followed by a desperate whisper: "Clash, please, let me in!"

I screwed caution, and threw open the door. Dynamite stumbled in, her hair and pantsuit a mess, as she clutched her left shoulder. "I took a hit: mortar shrapnel. You gotta help me," she gasped.

I helped her to the living room, sat her on the couch, and took a look at her shoulder. It didn't look nearly as bad as I thought it would—a tiny piece of shrapnel had lodged under the skin, but there wasn't much blood. "Stay here," I told her, as I left to grab my first aid kit.

"Well, if you insist." She tried laughing, but could only wince.

If you've ever thought about digging shrapnel out of someone's shoulder, my advice is: don't. It's bloody, it's gross, and there's lots of screaming involved. Once was enough for me, thank you.

As I finished wrapping Dynamite's shoulder in gauze, I knew I had to get answers from her before the painkillers from the first aid kit kicked in. "What's going on here? Why'd you blow up the building?"

She took a moment to settle down before answering. "MaizeTech synthesized a formula that can revive withered crops. Our scientists figured out how to reverse the process."

I turned over the idea in my head. "Now we can destroy crops, anywhere in the world."

"Burn and I were sent to make sure no one else has the formula."

I had to smile at our leaders' ingenuity.

As I gave a glass of water, I asked, "But what went wrong? This couldn't have been the explosion—you left before I did."

The wild, distant look in her eyes was like nothing I'd seen before-especially not from her. "Joes," she whispered, as she clutched my arms.

"But…how could they have known?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. We were on the highway out of town when a jeep cut us off and forced us off the road."

"Did you see who they were?"

Her breathing quickened. "I heard them. I heard them cry out, 'Yo Joe!' My God, I'd never hoped to hear it again. They swooped at us before we could figure out what happened."

"Did you see who they were?" I repeated. "Which ones were they?"

She groaned, "I don't know—there were lots of them." She dug her nails into my forearms. "They blew up the car, Clash! They launched a mortar at it. I know I was running, as fast as I could. Burn got hit, bad." She began sobbing, softly. "I don't know what happened to him. I just ran; it's all I could do."

I rubbed her hands, as I tried to calm her down. "They'll pay for this," I assured her. "Those creeps'll wish they'd never been born, once Cobra's through with them."

She wiped the tears from her eyes. She watched me, a pleading look in her eye. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

"Whadda ya mean?"

"All this. What do we think we're accomplishing?"

I didn't like where this was going. I avoided meeting her eyes. Instead, I pretended to check on her bandage. "We're building a better world. We're going to end the squabbling between nations. All the stuff that happened in Kuwait last winter—that'll never happen again once Cobra takes control."

She let out a weak cackle. "You can think that, since you've never seen the Commander and Destro argue."

I grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Look, you've lost some blood, and you're stressed out, and you don't know what you're saying. That's all."

She nodded. "You're probably right." She reached over and patted my cheek. "You're a good friend. With people like you, we really will make this a better world."

I could only blush.

"Listen," I told her, "We're gonna have to move out during the night. I'll try and disguise us as best I can." I rummaged through my supplies. "I already bleached _my_ hair, so you get to be the old lady."

She smiled. "Old before my time."

Over the next hour, I applied the latex mask that would transform Dynamite into, as far as anyone could see, a decrepit old woman. She made my job easier by dozing off.

As I smoothed out any hint of fakery in her gray wig, she awoke and asked for more water. She took a sip, and then seemed to roll it around her mouth before swallowing. "Have I told you about how I joined?"

"Nope." I'd always wanted to know—I'm nosy like that.

"My boyfriend and I joined together. We went to a rally on campus. A Cobra recruiter caused a big ruckus. Ended up getting his head beat in by the ROTC."

"Hmm. Maybe I should have taken you up on that college offer—sounds like fun." I managed to get a laugh out of her.

I finished the wig and showed her a mirror. "I look like my Aunt Ernestine," she muttered. "You're a little _too _good at this!"

"Thanks. So what happened next?"

"Well, I've always rooted for the underdog. My big weakness, I guess." She let out a sigh and added, "I wanted to find out more about Cobra, so I dragged Doug to a recruiting meeting. Next thing you know, we're flying off to training on San Felipe."

I'm not patient enough to wait for the answers I'm hungry for. "Soooo…what happened to Doug?"

She sighed. "He got assigned to a Cobra base in the Himalayas somewhere. There was a big battle there a few years ago. He didn't make it."

I sat next to her and put her head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"He died for the glory of Cobra." As she spoke, I felt her breathing quicken; her body began to shake. She shouted out "We all will!" and filled the bungalow with laughter and sobbing.

I held her and stroked her arms and cheeks for over an hour, until she calmed down.

We set out at midnight. We never saw any trace of G.I. Joe. Within a day, we met up with another operative. Within a week, we'd returned to Cobra HQ.

Our scientific team's findings had been wrong. The crop destroying formula didn't even work.

* * *

"Velazquez, take these reports to Destro. We need him to sign off on the raid we planned for the missile facility near Tashkent."

"Right away, Clash." Ramon might still be a teenager, barely, but he'd matured into one of the steadiest heads in the Viper Corps. I'd recommended him for officer, myself.

"And be quick about it. Zartan's been bugging me about this mission for weeks."

"Yeah, I know he can yell till he's blue in the face…literally."

If Ramon thought I was in the mood for jokes, he was mistaken. "Just do as I ordered!" As he saluted, and began running down the hall, I added, "And remember, I don't need the Dreadnoks on this mission! I don't want their brand of 'help!'"

I doubt he heard me, but it soon wouldn't matter. A minute later, I heard my Cobra beeper go off. I responded on my communicator, which, believe me, seemed pretty impressive before cell phones were everywhere: "Clash here."

"This is Tomax. You're wanted in the throne room, now!"

"On my way." My heart began thumping. It wasn't every day I got ordered to an audience with the Commander.

My heart nearly exploded when I entered the Great Cobra Throne Room: I alone had been summoned. The few other times I'd spoken with the Commander, I had been part of a larger group.

The Commander sat perched on his Great Serpent Throne, in his royal blue uniform, his face completely obscured by a silver mask. I never learned how he could breathe through it, but nevertheless, he did.

Tomax and Xamot flanked him, their arms folded; they stared me down. I'd have assumed they were checking me out, but I doubt either one swung that way. Maybe Xamot, whichever one he was.

"Ah, Clas-s-sh. So good to see you again." The Commander's voice cut through the air, with only the crackle of the torches that lit the room otherwise breaking the silence. "I've followed your progress with much interest!"

I knelt before my leader. "I'm most humbled to hear that, Commander."

"Enough bowing and scraping for today. I've s-s-summoned you on important business-s-s."

"I live to serve." I thought of the Tashkent mission, and crossed my fingers that I wouldn't be sent on some pointless errand.

I cursed myself for doubting my master.

"I understand you've expressed a wish to join the Crimson Guard, correct?"

"Who told you that?"

"We make it our business-s-s to know!"

Well, I should have guessed that by now.

"Yes, my lord. I would gladly join the Guard, if you allow it."

"You've developed a nice little reputation in our organization as it is. Why would you want a change?"

I grinned. "The Guard is the Guard. There's no greater honor."

The Commander turned to the twins. "Well put, wouldn't you agree?"

One spoke up: "She doesn't meet-"

"—the qualifications-"

And together: "—for membership!"

The Commander leapt to his feet, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "_I_ make the rules in Cobra! No one else! Is that understood?"

Tomax and Xamot shrugged in unison. "Most clearly, sir."

"Good." He took his seat again and motioned for me to come forward. "I have a mission for you, Clas-s-sh. Complete it, and you may join the Crimson Guard."

I'd have banged my cymbals together, if I still wore them. "I'll do my best, my Commander. You won't regret it."

"I'd better not!" He pulled out a manila folder and tossed it at my feet. "One of our operatives-s-s has defected. I need this traitor eliminated."

I felt my fingers go numb. "You mean, kill them?"

"Or, I could simply _let_ her destroy everything we've worked for. Which do you prefer?!"

I picked up the folder, a dossier on a "Sheila McDermott." Even though I didn't recognize the name, in my heart, I just knew, before I even opened the folder, who it must be.

"But, I—I know her."

"You were not chosen for this mis-s-sion at random." The Commander rested his head in his hand, as if bored by my hesitation.

The twins spoke up again. "Prove your courage-"

"—and your loyalty-"

"—and you'll have earned a place in the Guard."

Only now did I open the folder, to see Dynamite's emerald eyes staring back at me from her file photo. "This has to be a mistake," I sputtered, "she's loyal, I know it."

The Commander squealed with laughter. "Perhaps-s-s you don't know your friend as well as you think!" He grabbed a cassette from his pocket and tossed it at my feet. "Hear that, and tell me I'm mis-s-staken!"

My hand trembled as I picked up the tape. "May I go listen to this?"

The Commander stood again. "Of course. And as you do, remember what I have told you: The rewards for good work are endless-s-s, and the punishments for failure are never-ending!"

I thought back to my training, and finished the saying: "That is the Meritocracy. That is the way of Cobra."

The Commander stepped down from the throne and turned to leave. "You have learned well. I trust you'll do your duty." He swished his cape toward me, and left through the back way, with Tomax and Xamot in tow.

I rummaged through my duty bag, put on my walkman, and began listening to the tape.

I heard Dynamite's voice. I'd done wiretap duty plenty of times, and I recognized the sound of a tapped phone call. I couldn't quite make out the voice of the woman on the other end. The conversation seemed like pointless small talk, mostly about the weather, and Dynamite describing her car.

I fast forwarded. When I hit play again, I heard Dynamite sounding much more intense: "This is going to be a bombshell. The information I'm giving will cut Cobra off at the knees."

The other woman asked, "Why come to me? Why not the government?"

I heard Dynamite's familiar cackling. "I wouldn't trust the _government_ farther than I can throw them! The people need to know what I know, and I'm convinced you'll tell them the truth. Don't you get it? With the collapse of the Soviet Union, Cobra's got their hands on weapons that could make them unstoppable."

"But, why me?" The other woman asked.

"I saw the documentary you made on the phony Scud missile attacks. I know you'll tell the truth, whatever happens."

Dynamite audibly licked her lips, before adding, "I have a personal reason too. It's about your cousin, Clash."

I sank to the floor. How stupid of me! As the other woman spoke, I could hear Video's voice in every word: "Clash? I haven't heard from her in years."

How had I not recognized her?

Dynamite pleaded, "If you care anything at all about her, you'll help me rescue her from Cobra. She's so loyal, but with your help, I think we can reach her."

I pulled the headphones from my ears and tossed the walkman across the throne room.

* * *

I waited for three hours outside Video's offices in a green '76 Vega, on a scorching mid-September day in L.A. I'd pulled my black wig back into a ponytail, as I fidgeted with the flannel jacket I wore for the occasion. I thought of how society must be spinning more and more out of control, if dressing like a lumberjack could be considered the height of fashion.

Every so often, I stroked the Makarov PM I kept in my purse. A laser could be traced back to Cobra too easily. I had no choice but to use a conventional pistol.

A little after seven in the evening, I saw Dynamite leave the building, in sunglasses and a straw hat. She rushed to her car, dropped her keys, and spent what seemed like forever struggling to unlock her car door.

Once she drove off, I pursued her Corvette for over an hour. Buying a sports car on Cobra's money: her disloyalty knew no end.

She finally pulled into a motel parking lot in Riverside, and slipped into one of the rooms. I waited twenty minutes for the sun to set, said a silent prayer to whoever would listen, and went to work.

Picking the lock took only a moment. As I stepped into the room, Dynamite wheeled around and pulled a laser pistol on me. A part of me can never forgive her for dropping her arms as soon as she saw me.

"Ta-da!" I announced, stone faced.

"Clash, what are you?…oh." She slumped onto the bed, and ran her hands over the laser as casually as if she held a water gun.

I tried to steady my own hand. "You know why I'm here."

She sighed. "What did they promise you? The Guard?"

I tried to look away from her.

She let out a small laugh. "Of course they did. They'll promise you the earth. Look what it gets us. Look what it got Burn; Bludd; Zarana." She paused, and then quietly added, "Doug."

I crouched so I could look her in the eye. "It doesn't have to be this way. Come back with me. Beg the Commander for forgiveness." I felt myself shaking. "I'll stand by your side. I'll stake my life for you, before the Commander, Destro, and anyone else. Just, please, come back."

I saw tears dripping down her face. "You just don't get it. It's all so corrupt."

"Cobra's the future."

She laughed, harder than I'd ever seen. "Then the future's not worth living for." She pulled her long legs up to her chin and rocked back and forth. "They sent you to kill me. That tells me everything."

I didn't know what to say, except to push forward, and remember my duty. "What did you tell my cousin?"

Dynamite shrugged. "Everything I could think of about Cobra's plans. I had to make sure she got everything on tape, before…well, this."

I pointed my pistol at her face. She clutched her laser to her chest. "After everything Cobra's done for you, how could you?" I sighed, and added, "After everything we've been through."

"Video promised to help us both. I know you have your problems with her, but she said she'll do what she can to convince the government to cut a deal. If we tell them everything we know-"

"Shut up!"

"Please listen to me, Clash!"

"You betrayed us."

"They fooled me, and I fooled you, and I'm so sorry."

I cocked the hammer. "Please, come back with me."

"You're better than this. I wish you could see that!" She dropped her laser to the floor.

"I was nothing until Cobra."

She croaked her words, her voice as hollow as a ghost. "That's just not true. I'm sorry I met you. Forgive me for what I've done to you. Forgive-"

I'm not a murderer. A murderer kills with hate in her heart, and a taste for blood on her lips.

It's not murder when it's your duty.

It's not murder when you can't see any other option.

It's not murder when someone you love turns her back on you.

I killed my best friend, and then destroyed the room and a big chunk of the rest of the motel with an incendiary grenade. By midnight, I'd broken into Video's offices and set her tape archives ablaze.

I returned to HQ, the toast of Cobra. From the Commander on down, everyone wanted to shake my hand, or buy me a drink. I had to retell the story of what happened at least two dozen times in the mess hall.

Once he made sure the Baroness wasn't around, Destro invited me to his quarters that night. I shrugged, said yes, and did my duty.

The next day, as I admired myself in my beautiful new Crimson Guard uniform, so perfectly tailored on me, it all died. My devotion to the cause. My pride in my accomplishments. My dreams of a more perfect world. All wiped away.

All I could do now was survive.

I sunk to the floor and told myself, over and over, that I'm not a murderer.

Most of the time, I can believe it.

* * *

In the last days of Cobra, I'd already begun taking other work on the side. At lot of people in the underground seemed to know my name, which doesn't say much for Cobra's ability to protect the identity of its members.

Eh, just as well. I found I could make plenty of money doing a little snooping around, here and there. At this point, it didn't seem to matter anymore who I got my paycheck from: a radical Imam, a Japanese cult leader, or the Cobra Commander.

I found myself advancing quickly up the ranks of the Guard, but that had more to do with so many of us getting killed or captured, than my own efforts.

In early 1995, G.I. Joe finally took down the commanders of the Guard. Tomax (or was it Xamot?) was killed, and his brother captured.

Cobra had been forced to shift Headquarters nearly half a dozen times in the previous few years. We'd made base on a small, glacier-covered island in the north Pacific by this time. As I nearly froze to death under the covers, I asked Destro for command of the Guard.

I felt his chest rumble. "Ambitious to the very end, my vixen?"

I patted his metal chin. "That's why I'm the best for the job."

He told me he'd think about it.

The next day, I struggled to make it from one end of the base to another in a Stinger Jeep that threatened to break down at any moment. I'd just left the Command center when the Baroness flagged me down. "Claysh, can you give me a leeft?!"

Against my better judgment, I stopped to let her in.

"If you're not going to the docks, you better let me know now. I'm not running a bus service."

I felt something wet hit my right cheek. I heard her hiss, "Insolent girl! Remember who you're talking to."

I brushed off her spit and wiped my glove on the gearshift. "I certainly do. You're the operative whose intelligence led us into a trap in Mongolia."

"You have no idea vhat you're talking about."

"I think Tomax would disagree. Or Scrap Iron, or Icepick, or Low Blow." I patted her on the elbow. "Oh, that's right. They can't: they're all dead!"

The Baroness snickered. "Do not think for a moment that being Destro's latest plaything gives you any right to criticize your leaders."

I turned and gave her a quick smile. "I'm sorry. I forgot- that's your job."

I expected some sort of witty reply. Some spluttering anger wouldn't have surprised me. A slap to the face would have made sense. Instead, she said nothing, and we rode in quiet for the next ten minutes.

As we pulled toward the docks, where the crippled remnants of Cobra's fleet anchored, she yelled out, "Stop here!" I slammed on the brakes and sent us both lurching forward.

"What, you couldn't have walked the fifty feet from the dock to the guard tower?"

She jumped out and slammed the door behind her, stopping long enough to peer into the window and tell me, "You vill regret crossing me."

As she strode away, I tried turning the engine over. The battery had died.

* * *

The next day, Destro summoned me to his office. By office, I meant the hastily built log cabin where Destro set up a card table, two chairs, and dozens of boxes of files he'd salvaged from the last couple HQs.

"Ah, Clash, please, take a seat." Destro seemed to be fidgeting with a protractor and some blueprints. If I didn't know him better, I'd have assumed he was nervous.

"Has the Commander come to a decision about the new head of the Guard?"

Destro tapped his fingers together, before gazing down at his blueprints. "Hawkins."

I leaned forward. "Excuse me?"

"The Commander has chosen Hawkins."

I gripped the sides of my chair and nearly pulled one of the arms off. "Spunky? He doesn't know the first thing about leadership!"

Destro continued to examine what must have been truly fascinating blueprints. "He has served loyally since Cobra's earliest days…something you can not claim."

"Neither can you."

He looked up and gave me a smile (though with that mask, it could be hard to tell). "I knew there was a reason why I like you."

Then, it hit me. "She got to you, didn't she?"

I respected that he didn't play dumb. "She still has considerable influence with the Commander."

I snatched one of the blueprints and crumpled it into a ball. "And with you."

"And with me." He stood, and turned his back as he walked to a window overlooking the compound. "When the strengths of your allies are matched by those of your enemies, all you have left is your own merits."

Slowly, I joined him at the window, and rested my hands on his broad shoulders. "How do I rate?"

Without a hint of emotion, he replied, "Adequate."

I stood next to him for what must have been ten minutes, as the plan came together in my head. I left without a word.

* * *

Cobra's files were a mess. After all the setbacks we'd had, most of our records were kept on stray floppy disks, cassettes, and simple paper copies strewn all over the compound. Anyone who walked in would have been overwhelmed by the sheer challenge of trying to find anything—a receipt for mustard gas might be filed next to the Commander's mother's meatloaf recipe.

I made sure to work in broad daylight, where anyone who cared could have seen what I was up to. Sneaking around at night only invites questions.

It took a couple weeks to piece together everything I needed. Soon, I had a nice, authentic looking dossier, filled with actual Cobra records, along with my own forgeries. Even the most skeptical military official would have glanced through and realized the danger of what Cobra supposedly planned: A chemical attack on Washington, D.C., followed by the detonation of a backpack nuclear device in the middle of Los Angeles. Cobra's most daring, desperate plan yet. One guaranteed to get the Pentagon up off their asses and take action.

Of course, I also took the opportunity to destroy as many references to myself as I could find. I left a present for my dear cousin, Video, as well.

On the fifth of May, I set out on a typical assignment: procuring weapons from our contacts in Central America. But this time, I left knowing I'd never come back. As the blades of my FANG began whirring, I looked upon the compound, and debated whether I should warn at least two or three of my closest colleagues. Give them a chance to escape what would soon come.

I brushed off the idea. I couldn't risk my plan being exposed. Besides, if they were worthy of Cobra, they'd find a way to survive.

Like me.

As I prepared to lift off, I slipped my cymbal bracelets back on. I gave them a quick clash and let the sizzle ring in my ears, for an instant drowning out the whir of the blades.

With my dossiers safely tucked under the seat, I ditched the FANG over Alaska, before I could be shot down. I parachuted into a pine forest, and began hiking towards civilization.

* * *

A week later, I heard the news at a truck stop outside Provo, as I argued with a waitress who made my omelette with two eggs instead of three. The President (thankfully) interrupted a Chris Gaines song to announce a major victory for the U.S. military.

"My fellow Americans: G.I. Joe, our most elite force, has finally achieved its primary objective. Earlier this afternoon, they systematically destroyed the headquarters of Cobra, the terrorist cell which has plagued our world for over a decade.

I chewed quietly on my crappy omelette as he continued: "Yesterday, officials at the Pentagon informed me they had received highly credible information indicating Cobra had plans for an imminent attack on the United States…one that would likely kill millions. I gave the order last night to finish the threat of Cobra once and for all."

Everyone in the joint had gathered around the radio except me. I couldn't stand to face them, as they smiled and laughed at the fate of my family.

The fate I orchestrated.

"My friends, I have the duty and privilege to announce that our forces have confirmed the death of the Cobra Commander. He appears to have been killed in the initial bombing raid. They've also confirmed the death of Cobra's Number Two, the Scottish arms merchant known as 'Destro.' He died in a firefight with members of G.I. Joe. Our forces are still determining the whereabouts of other major Cobra leaders."

I dropped a counterfeit ten on my plate and headed for the door. Before I walked out, I heard the President add, "Although there may have been survivors, our victory here is not in doubt: Cobra has been defeated as an agent of terror in our world."

I hopped on the Harley I stole just outside Vancouver, revved it up, and took off. My heart pounded so hard, I could hear the veins throbbing in my ears. I couldn't stop laughing.

* * *

"Dad, are you awake?! Open up!"

After a couple more days, I'd arrived back in Mulberry at around midnight. I kept banging on my father's door, in the hope that he hadn't already passed out.

With my training, I could have easily picked the lock and slipped inside quietly, but when you bring down a worldwide revolutionary movement single-handed, you stop worrying about waking up the neighborhood.

I finally gave up and reached for a hairpin, when the door swung open. "The hell do you want this time of night?!"

I could tell he'd hurried to put his pants on, and he hadn't bothered with a shirt. His shock of red hair had turned gray. He was heavier than I'd ever seen him, and more sallow.

"Daddy, it's me, Clash."

He wiped the crud from his eyes and took a closer look. "Is that really you, Clash?" He rushed forward and hoisted me up in the air. "Yee-haw, my little girl's home!"

He pulled me down into a long hug. The scent of Wild Turkey and English Leather made me feel eight years old again.

I could hear him sob, softly. "You know how worried sick I've been?"

I broke down, and left pools on his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

Finally, he patted my head. "Well, never mind all that. Come on in; tell me about where you've been!"

I spent the next three hours sharing drinks and telling him all the stories about working for the Peace Corps that I'd been making up since the day I joined Cobra.

At one point, after I gave him a good belly laugh with a story about a volunteer in the Amazon who mistook a boa constrictor for a sewage pipe, he filled his glass with ice and said, "You know, that cousin of yours has been spreadin' a lot of rumors about you."

I curled my toes against the shag carpet. "I'll bet. What's she been saying?"

"That you had somethin' to do with those Cobra wackos."

"That's ridiculous," I snorted.

My dad spilled his drink as he tried to fill it. "And that's what I told your Uncle John when he came over here and got on my case about you."

I joined him at the table and poured a drink for him. "Well, I hope you tossed him out on his ass."

He roared with laughter. "You better believe I did, sweetheart! I told him he didn't know jack spit about my Clash!"

Then, he slapped his palm on the table. "And do you know what?!"

I stepped back. "What?"

"Yesterday, your aunt 'n' uncle were in a panic, 'cause _Video_ got picked up by the FBI! Turns out they had evidence _she_ was helping those Cobra jokers!"

I doubled over, at the thought of my wonderful cousin being led away in handcuffs as a traitor. I'd forged files indicating secret payments had been made by Cobra to Vivian Montgomery, in exchange for film she'd taken of sensitive military locations. Even though she'd only spend a few days in custody before her story checked out, I hope she'll remember my little gift for a lifetime.

Daddy gulped down his bourbon. "I made sure to remind your uncle that Video'll never measure up to _my_ daughter."

I hugged my father and started telling him about the volunteer who was attacked by the tiny fish in the Amazon that swims up into your body through your urine stream.

* * *

At around ten the next morning, I woke up on the couch, and found my dad still asleep in his La-Z-Boy. I covered him up with a blanket I found on the floor, and switched on CNN.

Hector Ramirez breathlessly reported on suspected survivors from the final attack on Cobra. "The highest profile names yet to be accounted for are Anastasia DeCobray, aka 'The Baroness,' and the man known only as 'Zartan.'"

His mustache twitched with excitement as he read of the names of others—some made my heart leap at the possibility they'd survived; others, I knew, were already dead.

I had nearly tuned him out when I heard my own name mentioned. I turned back to the screen and saw an especially unflattering picture of me, with my hair streaked red and purple, as part of a mission to the Balkans.

I sank into the couch cushions and tried, for a few moments, to ignore what I'd seen.

For a moment, I forgot, and enjoyed the thrill of being home again.

For a moment.

I pulled myself to my feet, slipped my boots back on, and kissed my dad on the cheek.

I hopped onto the motorcycle and sped out of town as fast as I could.

Within another two days, I'd made it to Mexico. I kept clear of the U.S. for over a decade.

My father died of a heart attack about a year after I last saw him. I didn't find out for nearly ten years.

A couple years after he died, the city bulldozed our cool purple house to make way for a hospital. When they prepared to pour the new foundation, they discovered the bones of a young woman, which had been buried underneath my home since sometime in the early '70s.

I'm in no position to judge him. I just miss him, every day.

* * *

The funny thing about heightened security: the more checks and searches are in place, the easier it is to sneak through. In these last few years, I've found it simpler than ever to enter and exit America. Even though my Most Wanted poster is still in post offices and police stations across the country, and despite the fact that it even specifies the type of bracelets I wear, no one ever stops me at an airport, or a border crossing.

My reflexes are always sharp to capture. I'm never given the chance to feel safe enough to slip up and give myself away.

Bad news for everyone but me, I guess. Tough cookies!

Last year, I was hired to track down the whereabouts of a former ETA member who'd fled to the U.S., so his colleagues could—well, what they do to him is none of my concern. After collecting the information they wanted, I had enough free time to pay a visit I'd been putting off for years.

The yellowed, tattered pages of the Cobra file were still accurate, after all this time. On the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio, at 712 Maple Glen Ave., is Janine's Art Supply—family owned since 1968.

Sleigh bells rang as I entered the little shop. The only person who seemed to be working there was busy helping a man at the cash register, so I busied myself by pretending to be interested in little cans of paint.

After examining a can of vermilion for five minutes, I switched to cerulean blue, when I heard a voice call, "Hi, can I help you?"

I nearly dropped the can when I saw her. She was about my age; tall, with dark hair, and emerald eyes. But it was her face that startled me—so familiar, that for a brief moment, I thought a long-forgotten prayer had been answered.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to startle you. Can I help you find something?"

I clicked my nails against the can. "No, I was just browsing."

She smiled, and it chilled me as if I'd seen the smile of a ghost. "Well, if you need any help just ask."

As she walked away, I called out. "Excuse me. Does Janine still work here?"

She turned back to me, while biting her lip. "I'm sorry, Janine passed away three years ago."

I nodded. "She was your mother?"

She smiled. "Yes, that's right."

"Then…you must be Angie."

She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Yes. I'm sorry, do I know you."

"Um, my name's Constance. I used to know your sister."

She put her hands to her face, as if I'd slapped her. "You know Sheila?"

I tried to act like I hadn't rehearsed this hundreds of times. "I knew her a long time ago. We used to work together, in L.A., in the music biz."

"I—she dropped out of school, when she was twenty, and we never heard from her again." I saw a frantic glint in her eye. "Is she ok? Where is she?!"

I held up my hands. "I'm sorry, I don't know. It's been about twenty years since I've seen her. I lost touch with her."

She shook her head. "Why did you come here? What do you want from me?"

I lied, and I'm glad I did. "She used to talk about you guys, and this shop, all the time. I was passing through town, and I remembered her, and I thought I'd stop by."

I saw tears running down her cheeks. "She talked about us?"

I smiled. "She had a story about you for every day of the week."

She couldn't stop the tears now. I didn't realize till later I'd been crying too.

Angie reached into her purse for a tissue. "I'm sorry, it's just, we heard such terrible rumors about her, and my mom could just never accept that Sheila had…that she was…"

"Look, I'm really sorry. I should go."

I turned, but she grabbed my arm. "Wait, please, no." She went to the front door and flipped the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED."

"You really knew my sister?"

"For a few years."

She gestured to the counter. "If you don't mind, I'd like talk with you."

"Sure."

I followed her to the back room, and began telling her stories. True stories, except a bit sanitized, for her protection. Stories that made it clear her sister had been the best friend I'd ever had. The friend Pizzazz could have been, if she'd given a damn.

That evening, after we'd shared peanut butter sandwiches and quite a few tears, Angie shook her head and sighed. "I don't understand what went wrong, and why she turned her back on us. I never knew my big sister had this whole other side to her. She must have been really something."

"Oh," I whispered, as I thought back on dreams lost, "she was dynamite."

* * *

(Thanks to my beta readers, including AllieGee).


End file.
